


Seven Conversations with an Artist

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Gen, Mentor Relationship, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:15:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Red, aged 16, seeks out the artist he admires most, hoping to learn from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quest

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude to Vix for her patience and her feedback. Even the bits I didn’t want to hear.

**PRELUDE**

_Dear Father_

_I got your letter yesterday, inviting me to join you. Cannes sounds wonderfully_  
 _exciting – but Simon Barrington has invited me to stay with him for the first part_  
 _of the holidays. I hope you won’t mind if I accept his invitation instead. His parents_  
 _own a place in the North Riding, near Leyburn. You’ll remember that you met_  
 _Dr Barrington here at school last St Andrew’s Day. Dr and Mrs Barrington were_  
 _awfully kind to ask me. I will telephone you as soon as I get home._  


_Yours, Dorian._

 

**QUEST**

Dorian paused on the steep path to wipe the perspiration off his forehead, grateful for the small breeze stirring in the branches overhead. 

Thick woods on either side of the path made it difficult to judge how much farther he had to go. He’d been walking for an hour and a half – mostly uphill. At first, striding out along a deserted path between green fields and tall woodlands had felt exhilarating; he’d been cooped up on the train for so long, and then hitch-hiked for miles. Now, he was getting tired. He was on the right path, though, he was sure of it. He’d checked; the woman at the village shop had confirmed this was the right way – although the look on her face told him she thought he was wasting his time.

That’s what Barrington had thought, too.

 

***************

 

The last Tuesday of term, the last period of the day. 

Mr Carstairs had moved the fifth form art class outside to sketch under the trees that grew along the edges of the playing fields. The fresh air would do them good, he’d said, and no doubt he also thought being outside the classroom might ease some of the bottled-up longing for freedom that was unsettling them all with the end of term so close.

“What’re you doing in the holidays, Dorian?” Simon Barrington leaned back against the shady oak tree, settling his sketch pad on his knees.

“Father’s gone to the south of France with a friend. He wrote and asked me if I’d join them.”

“Might be fun.”

Dorian snorted derisively. “No it wouldn’t, it’d be boring. But I’m not going.”

“What?” Simon stopped sketching and looked incredulously at his friend.

Dorian grinned, then turned his attention back to his drawing. “I wrote back and said I was going to spend the first part of the holidays with a friend, so I’d see him when he got back to England. What I’m really going to do is, I’m going to Westmorland to find Cameron Faraday, and ask him to teach me to paint.”

“Cameron Faraday! You can’t mean it!” Simon looked horrified. 

He’d heard Dorian on the subject of Cameron Faraday many times in the previous months, and had dutifully read all the magazine articles Dorian had shown him. The headlines had featured phrases like ‘Greatest living painter’, ‘Eccentric genius’, and ‘Uncompromising innovator’. Critics were unanimous in their praise of the man’s work, but the general consensus seemed to be that Faraday was irascible, intolerant, and antisocial. Simon admired his work almost as much as Dorian did, but it would never have occurred to him to seek the artist out.

Seeing the art master walking in their direction, Simon lowered his voice to an urgent hiss. “Dorian, what makes you think he’ll even talk to you, let alone agree to teach you?”

Dorian turned wide blue eyes on his friend. “Why wouldn’t he? I’m serious, Barrington. If I want to improve, I need to learn from real artists. Faraday is the best living painter in England.”

The art master had paused to talk to two other boys a short distance away; he was still too far off to overhear what Dorian and his friend were saying.

“And what will your father say about not going to France? Good lord, I’d never get away with that. When my father says we have to go somewhere, we don’t have a choice.”

“My father won’t care. He was happy with the explanation I’d be staying with a friend’s family. I’ll meet him back home in Cornwall, and everything will be all right. He’ll never know.”

Simon regarded his friend with a mixture of apprehension and admiration. “Whose family did you say you were staying with?”

“Yours.” 

Simon’s jaw dropped. “God, Dorian! What if he checks up? What if he telephones?”

“He won’t. He’s busy – he’s got his mind on other things.” A small smile. “He trusts me. Don’t worry, Barrington; he won’t telephone. Your parents won’t get involved. You won’t have to explain.”

 

***************

 

Dorian rounded the last bend in the path. The woods gave way to a grassy clearing with a rocky crag rearing skyward on one side, and a steep drop down toward the valley floor on the other. The view over the valley and the lake was stunning, but he didn’t linger to look at it because at the far side of the clearing he could see a stone and timber cottage – and standing in the doorway, looking directly at him with a deeply unfriendly expression on his face, was the man Dorian had come to find. Cameron Faraday.

Refusing to feel intimidated, Dorian approached with all the self-confidence he could muster, and came to a halt about ten feet away.

“What do _you_ want?” Faraday demanded, his tone harsh and unwelcoming. 

Dorian took a deep breath. “My name’s Dorian Red. I’m an art student. I admire your work and I want to ask you if you would teach me how you paint.”

Faraday pinned him with an inhospitable stare. “This isn’t an art school. If you want lessons, go to the village institute.” His mouth curled sarcastically. “They teach watercolours on Thursdays.”

Dorian stood his ground. “Mr Faraday, I’m serious. If I’m to improve my painting I need to learn from real artists. I want to learn from you. Will you teach me?”

Faraday narrowed his eyes, his mouth set into a hard line. “What makes you think you’re worth teaching?”

Wordlessly, Dorian delved into his back pack and pulled out a sketch book. He handed it to Faraday. “If you think I’m not worth it, I’ll go. But if you think I am—”

Faraday opened the book at random, and turned over two or three pages, frowning. “You study art at school?”

“Yes. I’ve been top of my class in art three years running.”

Faraday snorted. He turned over several more pages, more slowly now, and then turned back to re-examine the pages he’d already viewed.

Closing the sketch book, Faraday looked Dorian over critically. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

“There’s only my father. He’s in Cannes.”

“What you mean is, he doesn’t know you’re here.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

Faraday shook his head and muttered something that sounded like, “Bloody people, nothing but nuisances.” 

He handed the sketch book back. 

“All right. I’ll teach you. You can stay for a week – after that, you’ll be in my way so you’ll need to leave. There’s a bed in the loft. You’ll have to pay your way while you’re here: I need a model for the picture I’m working on. I’d’ve had to hire some fidgety boy from the village so you’ll do instead. Can you sit still?”

“Yes, of course I can.”

“All right. In the mornings, you model for me. In the afternoon, you paint, and I’ll work with you to improve your technique. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you. I really appreciate—“

“And there’s nothing to do at night up here,” Faraday cut in. “You’ll be too far from the village to go looking for company, so if being stuck up here doesn’t appeal to you, you’d better leave now.”

Dorian raised his chin slightly. “I want to learn from you. Being up here doesn’t bother me.”

Faraday’s expression softened a little. He smiled, almost warmly.

“You’ve got guts, lad, I’ll say that for you. Going behind your father’s back isn’t exactly admirable, but that’s nothing to do with me. You’ll have to work that out with him. Come on then, Dorian Red; I’ll show you where to put your bag. Have you eaten?”

 

 


	2. Sitting, Day One

“Sit still, damn you.” Faraday looked up from his sketching as Dorian tried to wriggle unobtrusively.

“Sorry, but I feel like I’m tied up in knots!”

Faraday threw his charcoal into the wooden bowl at his elbow and sat back, brow wrinkled in frustration. “I thought you said you could sit still.”

“I _have_ been sitting still – for hours,” Dorian complained. Breaking his pose, he stretched his long denim-clad legs out and tugged at the collar of the worn shirt he was wearing. “I’m not used to this. How do models stand it for hours on end?”

Sighing loudly, Faraday stood up. “It’s all right, lad. I know you haven’t done this before. Professional models learn how to relax and stay still. You just haven’t got the knack yet. Go on, get up and walk around for a while.”

Glad to be able to move freely, Dorian stood up and stretched elaborately. “Can I see what you’re drawing?”

“Yes, if you like.” Faraday walked over to the kitchen nook in the corner of the studio to fill the kettle.

Dorian came around behind the easel. There were some full-length sketches showing him looking awkward and angular, and some that concentrated on his bent knees, or his hands, or the angle of his head and neck. 

Faraday watched him take it all in. “You’re a different physical type from what I had in mind. I’m having to do some adjusting. Tea?”

“No, thanks.” Dorian came over and poured himself a glass of water. 

Faraday opened the refrigerator and lifted the milk jug out. “The painting I’m working on’s a commissioned piece. It’s going to hang in the foyer of a town hall somewhere in the midlands.”

Surprise rounded Dorian’s eyes. “I didn’t think you did commissions.”

“How would you know that?” 

“I read an interview you did, where you said you hated creating art to order.”

“So I do. Sometimes, though, you’ve got to pay the bills. High ideals can be costly.” Faraday poured boiling water on his tea bag. “The concept was interesting, and they gave me free rein with the interpretation. It’s a series of panels showing the social impact of the rise and fall of the industrial economy. Right now, you’re my model for ‘Disenfranchisement.’” He put the milk back in the fridge. “You’re the wrong physical type, though. Disenfranchisement’s not supposed to be physically attractive.”

Curious to know more, Dorian said, “Do you always work from live models, or do you sometimes paint from your imagination?”

“Varies. Live models help you bring something real to your work.”

“Real?”

“Imperfection. The odd quirks of posture or form; their lack of symmetry; the way a model’s feelings influence their physical presence. Stops you from drifting into depicting an ideal. People’s idiosyncracies are far more interesting than perfection. Working from life makes you capture that in all its irregularity.”

Dorian hadn’t ever thought about that. The idea appealed to him.

“That’s why I’m having trouble with you as a model,” Faraday said. “Too graceful for what I need. Still, you’re here, and you’ve agreed to do the job, so I’ll make do. Come on, back to work.”

For the next hour, Faraday made Dorian shift around into different postures while he sketched, frowning and grumbling. Moving around made the job easier, but Dorian was still glad when they finished up for the morning.

Faraday seemed dissatisfied with his work. 

“Not your fault, lad. You’re just the wrong choice for what I’ve been trying to do. I think I’ll try some sketches for one of the other panels tomorrow. ‘Aspiration’, or ‘Nostalgia’, maybe. Your physical type’s probably more suited to those.” Faraday watched Dorian stretching and bending, pulling the tightness out of his muscles. “So, will you be ready for another three hours of sitting still tomorrow, Dorian Red?”

“Of course. That’s what we agreed.” 

Together, they descended the bare, narrow stairs to the kitchen, where they shared a meal and Dorian questioned Faraday about the work he was creating. 

In every interview Dorian had ever read, Faraday had given spiky, cantankerous answers to the interviewers’ questions. Now, sitting at his own table, he talked about his work with an enthusiasm and intensity that thrilled Dorian. He talked about his thought processes, how he’d refined his ideas to fit the brief he was given, how he chose or rejected the possible ways he could represent his ideas. 

Dorian learned more about Cameron Faraday’s work in that hour than he had in all the thousands of words he’d read. That conversation convinced Dorian he’d done the right thing in coming here.


	3. Plein Air

Faraday had suggested they begin his tuition with painting out of doors. “If you’re painting the landscape, your subject’s not going to run away from you,” he’d said gruffly. Dorian couldn’t tell yet when Faraday was joking, so he’d said nothing in reply.

They settled themselves at the edge of the drop down into the valley; Faraday parked his stool next to Dorian’s. 

While Faraday set up the easel and clipped a sheet of heavy paper onto the board, Dorian turned his paintbrush nervously in one hand. Faraday had promised to help him with his painting, but he wasn’t quite sure how the artist proposed to go about it. 

“Well now, Dorian Red; tell me what you think are the things a good painter should know about.”

“Colour. Perspective.” A pause for thought. “Composition.”

The faintest suggestion of a smile shifted across Faraday’s lips. “That’s your considered opinion, is it?”

Dorian frowned, uncomfortable under Faraday’s gaze. What did the man expect him to say?

“Well, shouldn’t artists know about those things?”

“Is that what your art master told you at school? Colour, perspective, composition?”

“Well … yes. But I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think he’s right.”

Faraday raised one eyebrow. “All right. If you’ve thought it through, and that’s what you think an artist should have in his toolkit, let’s begin with those three things.”

Dorian felt confused. Faraday was going to be hard to work with if he kept this up. “So, do _you_ think artists need to know about colour, perspective and composition?”

Faraday’s eyes twinkled, as if he’d enjoyed unsettling his pupil. “Of course they should. Those things, and more besides. You and your art master are right: colour, perspective and composition are part of the essential toolkit.” The twinkle intensified. “So’s having your own opinion. There are no prizes here for regurgitating what art masters say in class. I want to hear what _you_ think.”

“Well, I told you. I’ve thought about it, and I think those things are important.” Dorian couldn’t quite keep the annoyance out of his voice.

Faraday looked amused. “Good, then. Colour, perspective, composition; having your own opinion, and being prepared to defend it. All essential.” He handed Dorian a clean palette. “So show me colour, perspective and composition at work.” 

Faraday gestured at the lake glimmering darkly below. “There’s Ullswater. I want you to make a colour sketch. Show me what you see. Then, we’ll look at refining your technique.” Faraday stood up. “I’ll be inside. Come and find me if you want me for anything. I’ll come back in an hour or so to see how you’re getting on.”

Working alone in the open air, Dorian relaxed into his task. The view was beautiful: sunlight and shadow shifting across the hills softened their harsh shapes, and the lake’s rippling surface ruffled beneath a light wind. Slowly, his painting took shape. He hadn’t noticed how much time had passed until he heard Faraday walking across the clearing, boots swishing in the thick grass.

Faraday pulled the second stool over close to Dorian, and sat down. He ran an assessing eye across the painting.

Bold use of colour. Everything was expressed in hues a shade darker, a tone more intense, than the reality before them. Under Dorian’s brush, the vista had taken on a moody, brooding character. Faraday’s eye skimmed across the violet-grey crags limned with gold rearing up over shimmering lead-blue water – a monumental landscape, overpowering in its scale. 

And yet – something in the way the light moved down the cliff-face and across the water drew his eye down to the lower right-hand corner of the picture, where a tiny solitary figure stood in a pool of yellow sunlight at the edge of the mere.

Dorian stopped painting, and looked at Faraday, who nodded. 

“Good work,” he said. He pointed at the figure on the shore. “How long was he standing there?”

“Only a moment.”

“But you put him into your landscape anyway.”

“It felt right.”

The artist was watching him intently. “But…?”

“Well… Mr Carstairs, the Art master, says art’s about reproducing our perception, not our imagination.”

“And do _you_ think that?”

“I know what he means: he means we should try to show what we see.”

“On one level, he’s right. If you can’t produce the image you want to show, it’s not much use. But a painting’s not a photograph. If you want an accurate record of what something looks like, then take a bloody photo of it. What the artist can do that the camera can’t is to show you _how_ to look at it.” He pointed at the figure in the corner again. “Why is he important to the picture?”

“Because he was so small, and he was only there for a moment. The view over the lake is huge shapes; everything fits together on a massive scale. He was there and gone in such a short time.” Dorian looked uncertain. “Do you think putting him in is a distraction?”

Faraday gave a lopsided smile. “Do _you_?”

“No. It was something that happened in a few seconds, in a landscape that’s been shaped over millions of years. Like two different time scales intersecting. If I’d been looking in the other direction, I wouldn’t have seen him at all. Maybe it’s not important, but I wanted to capture it.”

Faraday pointed to the faint shaft of sunlight slanting across Dorian’s picture. “This is good. You’ve shown us that there’s something else to look at here, not just the hills and the lake and the sky. Your instinct is sound. You can develop your technique a bit – make this more subtle – but this beam of light draws the whole thing together, and shows us what to look at. _How_ to look at it.” 

Faraday picked up his sketch block and a clean brush. 

“Here, watch this,” he said. “Try showing the light this way.”

With a few sure, swift strokes, Faraday sketched out the crags, solid and dark. Then, dipping a smaller brush in yellow-white paint, he scattered minute splashes of sunlight down the cliff face, skipping off the ridges and crests. 

Dorian looked at his own effort, a misty shaft of translucence slanting across the hills and lake, then looked back at Faraday’s sketch. 

“I like yours better,” he said. “It looks more natural.”

“But still has the same effect? Drawing the eye down?”

“Yes.” Dorian looked up at Faraday. “More subtle.”

Faraday gave a wry smile. “Subtlety has its place.” He pointed to Dorian’s treatment of the lone figure on the shore. “In fact, you were using a fairly similar technique here, where you showed the sunlight on the edge of the water. And up here, where you’ve put this edge of gold on the crag.” He held his sketch block up next to Dorian’s painting. “Put this technique to work in your picture, and it wouldn’t look out of place when you consider the sunlight on the cliff-top and the shore.”

Straightening up, Faraday clapped Dorian on the shoulder. “Good work for today, Dorian Red. Let’s finish up; the light’s going over behind the fells. Put your stuff in the studio, then come and give me a hand in the kitchen. Can you peel potatoes?”


	4. Portraiture

Dorian sat down at the easel, and surveyed the jumble of paints and the pot of clean brushes Faraday had laid out for him. 

This afternoon, they were in the studio. Light poured in through the clerestory windows high up on the walls. Small motes of dust danced in the shafts of sunlight; the air was warm. Dorian liked Faraday’s studio. He thought he would like to have a room like this for his own painting. Perhaps Father would agree to his using one of the attics in the north wing. He could feel at home in a room like this, surrounded by the tools of the artist’s craft, undisturbed and free to dream.

Faraday carried a small table over and set it down by Dorian’s easel, and then placed a framed mirror on it. 

“Here. Adjust this so you can see yourself clearly.” 

Dorian swivelled the mirror until he could see himself framed comfortably in the glass. 

“Right. There’s your task for the afternoon. I want you to paint a colour sketch of yourself. I’ll leave you to get on with that for a while; then I’ll come and see what you’re doing. All right?”

Dorian nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

Faraday’s footsteps clattered down the bare wooden stairs, and the door to the back garden slammed shut. 

Dorian adjusted the angle of the mirror slightly, and gazed at his reflection. He’d been told by more than one admirer that he was an unusually beautiful young man. He knew his looks attracted attention. Most of the time, he enjoyed that. 

Blue eyes and blond hair, flawless skin. The sort of colouring artists of old had used to depict innocence. A cynical smile ghosted across Dorian’s features at the thought. 

The Chaplain’s sermon on the last Sunday of term had been on the theme of ‘Christian innocence’. “Keep your hearts pure. Guard against sin,” the Reverend Dr Simpson had admonished his young, bored congregation. “Accept the truth others give you. Believe in your fellow man. Do not be skeptical. Do not harden your hearts.”

Dorian didn’t think any of that was very good advice. He’d learned at a young age that there were people ready to exploit you and cheat you. To Dorian, ‘innocence’ was just another word for ‘gullibility’. His blue eyes gazed steadily back at him from the mirror, knowing and shrewd.

Turning to the array of paint tubes, he selected some colours and began to paint.

By the time Faraday returned, Dorian was engrossed in blending colours for skin and hair, and he’d realised how complex a task he’d been set. Faraday placed a stool beside Dorian’s chair and watched him work. 

“What are you using for the skin tones?”

In reply, Dorian held his palette out.

“Hmm. Try a little burnt sienna instead,” suggested Faraday. He scrabbled through the array of tubes and squeezed a small blob of paint out onto the palette. “Try that. Work some titanium white in with it. No, blend it on the canvas. Here, like this.”

Faraday took up a clean brush and demonstrated, daubing burnt sienna and white in alternate strokes, blending as he went. “See? You’re forming the shadow and highlight from the same pigments.”

Dorian tried. He was quick to learn, and on his third attempt, the skin tones emerged smooth and natural from beneath his brush. Delight danced in his eyes. 

Faraday squeezed his shoulder. “That’s better. Now, the hair. Start with the same colours—“

“But the hair’s gold, not red-brown!”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re creating an illusion. The eye will see gold. You create the perception of light through blending and layering, highlight and shade. See?” Faraday’s brush moved in quick, light strokes across the canvas, and luxuriant blond tresses emerged from the melding of colour and white. “Now, highlight it with this... and add some shadow there… See? Now you try.”

Dorian tried. It was almost miraculous: fewer colours yielded a richer result. A slow smile curved his mouth. “That’s amazing,” he breathed.

“You wanted me to teach you how I paint, didn’t you? This is how. It’s not about what’s really there, it’s about what the viewer sees. What they believe when they look at the image. If you can create something that looks like truth to the viewer, then it is truth, as far as they’re concerned.” 

Watching his pupil blending colours, Faraday raised a warning eyebrow. “Mind you, lad, don’t get the impression that art is all about tricking the observer. It’s not. It’s about revealing inner truth. A good portrait isn’t just an accurate image of what someone looks like. A good portrait shows you what the person’s like – a window into the subject’s inner life.”

Frowning at his canvas, Dorian said, “I don’t think you can see what I’m like from this picture.”

“Go easy on yourself, lad. It’ll come. You’re still developing your technique. Let yourself get control over the tools of the trade before you worry about psychological insights. But it’s good to observe which painters can do it well. Think about the portraits you’ve seen. Can you think of any that give you a sense of what the person’s like?” 

“Well… There’s the Félix Philippoteaux portrait of Napoleon, in his Corsican military uniform. Do you know the one I mean?”

“Napoleon Bonaparte? That short-arsed megalomaniac toad?”

“He doesn’t look like a toad in that portrait. He’s young and handsome. Thoughtful, and almost sad, as if he can see the pity of war, as well as the glory. As if he could foresee the horror that his campaigns would unleash—”

“Didn’t stop him, though, did it? Power-hungry, like all these military heroes. Prepared to spend other people’s lives like money, to buy themselves a shiny crown or a place at the top of the heap.”

“All right, he might have ended up that way – but he was only twenty-three when that portrait was painted. His uniform makes him look – I don’t know – austere, untouchable – but you can see that underneath, he’s a man of passion and purpose. You can see what he must have been like before he got corrupted. Idealistic. Heroic.”

Faraday smirked. “Sounds like you’ve got a major crush on Old Boney.”

Dorian blushed slightly. “Well, why not? Bravery and ambition are sexy.”

Grinning, Faraday stood up. “Being good at what you do is sexy, too. Come on, see if you can get your colour sketch finished before the light goes. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Felix Philippoteaux portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte as a Lieutenant-Colonel of the First Battalion of Corsica can be viewed here: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Napoleon_-_2.jpg  
> The portrait was painted in 1834, when Bonaparte was 23.


	5. Still Life

Clambering up the stairs to the studio after lunch, Dorian said, “You know, I’m really enjoying the things you get me to paint. I like the technical challenges. Mr Carstairs makes us paint a bloody still life for the first art lesson every term. Too dull for words.”

He stopped short in the studio doorway.

An old oak table had been pulled into the centre of the room, with a length of rich crimson fabric draped across it in deep careless folds. A brass bowl overflowing with bunches of grapes stood in the middle, along with a wine bottle, and a glass full of wine.

Faraday, grinning, said, “Too dull for words, eh?” He picked up the glass of wine, drank half of it, and replaced the glass. “Come on, Dorian, plenty of technical challenges to be had here. We’re both going to paint this, and compare notes.”

Dorian, looking slightly embarrassed, returned the grin. “All right.”

Seated at two easels, they began. Dorian soon left off his own painting to watch Faraday at work. Rather than concentrating on one object at a time, the artist seemed to treat the image as a unified whole. He worked in bold blocks of colour. The still life took shape like an image emerging from a thick fog. First, objects took on solidity, then detail began to appear. Texture and reflectivity followed.

“Come on,” Faraday chided, “you’re supposed to be working on this too.”

“I know, but I’m learning a lot from watching what you do.”

“All right, then – so follow what I’m doing. See that fold of cloth there? Where it spills over the edge of the table? Watch this – then try it for yourself.”

Faraday loaded his brush with paint, and swept a long curve of crimson across his canvas. He repeated the action, then repeated it again. Next, bold sweeps of indigo and purple created deep folds in the fabric. 

Dorian tried to mimic the effect. 

“Not bad, not bad,” Faraday murmured. “Don’t hold back. It won’t bite you: it’s only paint. Now: where’s the light source?”

Dorian pointed.

“Right. So – highlights? No, I’m not showing you how. You first.”

Hesitantly, then with greater conviction, Dorian edged the high points of the cloth with paler colour and blended it in. 

“Good, good.” Faraday turned to his own canvas, selected a broader brush than Dorian would have dreamed of using, and slashed streaks of apricot and pale purple-red across the summit of the bunched-up fabric in his picture. 

Dorian shook his head in awe at Faraday’s confident use of colour and form.

“Tiziano Vecellio.” Faraday rolled the name around on his tongue. “You know who I mean, of course?”

“Of course. Titian.”

“That’s right. Titian. If Titian taught us anything, he taught us about the use of colour. He showed us that you can mimic nature on your canvas, and still be bold with colour. God was bold; we should be too.”

Dorian looked surprised. “Do you believe in God, Cameron?”

Faraday grinned, a wolfish dark-humoured half-snarl. “I believe in hunger – the kind of hunger that makes you want to eat life up and savour every experience. God is the juice inside all of creation – the appetite that makes us what we are.” The feral grin compressed into a smirk. “I bet your college chaplain wouldn’t see God that way.”

“The Reverend Dr Simpson doesn’t believe in juice and hunger,” Dorian drawled, “unless you’re talking about breakfast.”

With a short bark of laughter, Faraday turned back to his canvas. “What about you? Do you believe in God, Dorian?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. Probably not.”

Faraday’s brush moved smoothly across his canvas, extending the deep fall of fabric.

“Of course, if Titian was painting this, he’d be using true vermilion, made from cinnabar. That’s what gave him his gorgeous reds. See that Chinese box up there on the shelf?” Faraday nodded toward a glass-fronted cabinet loaded with an odd collection of the curious and the beautiful: antique vases, carved figures made of ivory or wood, gleaming silver, coloured glass. The Chinese box seemed to glow from within, the purest, densest red imaginable. “That’s 19th century Chinese lacquer-ware. It’s coloured with cinnabar.”

Dorian said, “Isn’t there something about vermilion pigment being unstable?”

“Yes, it was a problem. Vermilion can blacken over time, because of chemical reactions with the air or other compounds that touch it. And in the old days, because it was so expensive, the pigment was sometimes cut with brick dust or iron oxide, or some other cheap material, and that added to its instability. The other thing about true vermilion is that it’s poisonous. Mercury sulfide. The poor devils who ground it up and made it into paint were killing themselves in the process. True vermilion’s deadly stuff, Dorian. It’s beautiful though: nothing gives a better true red.” Faraday loaded his brush with crimson paint. “This synthetic stuff is harmless enough, and it holds its colour better than true vermilion – but it’s nowhere near as beautiful.”

Faraday finished the swathe of fabric, and turned his attention to the brass bowl at the centre of his painting. 

“So, you know Titian’s work. Who else do you know? Which painters do you like?”

“Caravaggio.” The answer was swift and definite.

“Ah. Another user of true vermilion. Another painter who believed in grasping life and giving it a good shake. What appeals to you about Caravaggio?”

“The shadows. The way every painting hints that there might be more going on that you can’t quite see. I mean, that’s what happens in life, isn’t it? There’s always something else going on that you didn’t see.”

Faraday chuckled. “Well, now, that’s something we can all use to our advantage. If you can direct people’s attention to something else, you can work quite comfortably in the shadows. I never would have been able to concentrate on my work if I hadn’t learned how to do that. Just think of all those artists in times gone by who struggled for recognition – and now, you have to beat the bloody journalists and busybodies off with a stick if you want some peace and quiet.”

“There must be plenty of artists struggling for recognition today, though,” Dorian commented.

“Well, of course, it’s just as hard as it’s ever been to get a start – but if you’re lucky enough to have some success, the blood-suckers and parasites won’t leave you alone. That’s the modern-day media for you – greedy for whatever crap they can fill up their newspapers or television shows with.”

“So is that why you’ve cut yourself off from the rest of the world, living up here?”

Faraday snorted. “I’m not a bloody hermit, Dorian. But I _have_ learned how to make sure people don’t bother me.”

“Most of the stuff people write about you says you’re antisocial, or paranoid, or something. Does that bother you?”

Shrugging, Faraday said, “I care what people think about my work, but I don’t need them to like me. I’ve created an image the rest of the world sees. It’s what I want them to look at, so I can get on with things without being bothered.” He chuckled. “The image has taken on a life of its own. I think I’ve been accused of having every vice anyone ever thought of – but I don’t care, if it gives me space to work in.”

Dorian grinned. “That interview you did with Robinson Darville in _British Art Today_ ; he said you were debauchery personified.”

“That prudish weasel. He wouldn’t know debauchery if it buggered him from behind in a dark alleyway. Robinson Darville is a miserable excuse for an art critic who has no idea about anything: about art, or about creating art. He certainly doesn’t know anything about me. He didn’t come anywhere near finding out what I think or how I work; I made bloody sure of that.”

“But isn’t that what an interview’s for? To find out about you? To help people understand your work?”

“Don’t be naïve, Dorian! That might be what they tell you at school but in the real world interviews in magazines are designed to tell the public what to think. That way, they don’t have to think for themselves. That interview was about feeding the public with Robinson bloody Darville’s prissy perceptions of how things should be.” 

Dorian giggled delightedly. 

“Laugh if you want to, but it’s really no laughing matter. Dorian, people don’t think for themselves these days. The Robinson Darvilles of this world make a living assuring them they don’t need to, by feeding them opinions they can regurgitate.” Faraday jabbed angrily at his canvas with a paint-laden brush. “The world would be a better place without all these so-called critics and commentators. If people want to understand my work, or anyone else’s work for that matter, they need to use their eyes and ears and their bloody brainpower, and think for themselves.” Faraday glared at his painting, and threw his brush down. “That’s it. I can’t concentrate any more. Take a break. We’ll leave it for today.”


	6. Sitting, Day Four

There must have been nearly a hundred finished canvasses stacked up around the perimeter of the studio. Idly, Dorian wandered around the room, browsing through them as he waited for Faraday. Along one wall, most of the pictures were of women. Nudes. Clothed. Head and shoulders portraits. Full length studies. 

Dorian looked up as Faraday came into the studio and began gathering his tools together.

“Becoming acquainted with the Ladies?”

Dorian shrugged. “Your models?”

A teasing light gleamed in Faraday's eyes. “A lot of them were more than models. They were friends. Lovers.” He sat down at his easel, ready to begin work.

Dorian looked around the studio. The chair he’d been sitting on the previous day was nowhere to be seen, and the low divan that had been up against the far wall was now pulled out into the middle of the room. 

“Where do you want me to sit?”

“Change of plan. The project’s not going well. I want to try something different.” Faraday nodded toward an oriental screen in the corner. “I need you with your gear off.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. 

“Do you mind?” Faraday asked. 

“No. Not at all.” Dorian’s customary composure settled back in place.

“Good, then. Get undressed back there. There’s a robe that you can use hanging up behind the screen. It belonged to one of my lady friends, but don’t let that bother you.”

Dorian undressed quickly and emerged from behind the screen clad in flowery satin. The effect was not incongruous. The exotic robe suited him. 

Faraday barely glanced at him as he let the robe slither to the floor and lay face-downwards on the divan. The artist took his time getting his tools sorted out, and then looked Dorian over with the same dispassionate, impatient gaze he used for any subject he worked with, living or inanimate. 

They settled to work, Dorian lying with his head resting on loosely-folded arms. Faraday sketched in silence for a long time. Dorian began to feel drowsy, letting thoughts drift in and out of his mind unchecked.

“So did you find anything that interested you amongst those paintings?” Faraday’s voice pulled him back to the here and now. 

“I thought some of them weren’t like your usual style.”

“Some of them go back a long way. Nearly twenty-five years, in some cases. My style’s evolved since then.”

“Why did you keep them?”

“Not all of them are saleable. Some I’ve kept for sentimental reasons.”

“Sentimental? You?” Dorian blurted out.

Faraday stopped sketching and looked at him, amused. “I do have some normal feelings, you know. I can see you’ve swallowed all that ‘Cameron Faraday, antisocial maniac’ stuff they write in the papers.” He resumed his sketching. “A few of those paintings represent milestones in learning something important about the craft. And, some of them remind me of affairs I want to remember.”

“There was one model you painted a lot. The woman with black hair.”

A smile. “Veronique. I worked with her on and off for years. She finally got sick of me and went back to France. Do you like women, Dorian?”

“Not much. I’m interested in men.” The expression in Dorian’s eyes sharpened. “Why? Do you like men, Cameron?” There was something hard wrapped up at the centre of the question.

Faraday looked up from what he was doing, expression carefully neutral. “If you mean, am I interested in _you_ , no. Your virtue’s safe with me, Dorian. I’m not about to try to seduce you.”

A faint blush crept into Dorian’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Do you _mind_ my asking?” 

“I suppose not. Last time someone asked me about my preferences it was the Chaplain at school. He said I’d grow out of it.” A dry, humourless chuckle. “I said, no I won’t. This is who I am.”

A soft huff of amusement from Faraday. “What did he say to that?”

“He said I was too young to know my own sexuality, but I’ve always known. I’ve never looked at girls; only boys.” He watched Faraday, who was concentrating on his sketching. “My father’s gay. It’s always seemed ordinary to me; sometimes I forget people see anything odd in it. The house was always full of his friends. My mother left years ago. Couldn’t stand being neglected and humiliated, she said. So she took my sisters and left me with Father. She thought I was beyond redemption.”

The sudden bitterness in the boy’s tone stopped Faraday from replying. 

Watching him carefully, Dorian said, “So, _do_ you like men at all?”

Faraday shrugged. “I’ve slept with men, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve never had an emotional attachment to a man. I prefer women. Men, it was just pushing the boundaries.”

Sitting back, Faraday surveyed his work and dropped his charcoal stick in the wooden bowl. “Time for a break.” He stood up and went into the kitchen nook to boil the kettle.

Dorian got up from the divan and wandered over to see Faraday’s work. 

Watching him from across the studio, Faraday frowned. “Put the bloody robe on,” he growled. “Try to act like a professional.”

Rolling his eyes, Dorian picked up the flowery satin robe and pulled it on. “What’s the point? You’ve seen everything I’ve got.”

“Models cover up when they aren’t working.”

“Bet you didn’t say that when you were painting any of your mistresses.”

“You’re not my bloody mistress, boyo. Act like a professional.”

Tying the sash around his slim waist, Dorian came behind Faraday’s easel to look at the sketches. Faraday had drawn him lying on a grassy bank, staring dreamily at his reflection in a pool of water.

“Narcissus?” Dorian asked, not sure if he should feel offended. “Do you see me as Narcissus?”

Faraday raised an amused eyebrow. “You’re surprised?”

“Well… Narcissus was supposed to be very beautiful. I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You’re Narcissus to the life. I’ve never met anyone who was so convinced of his own good looks.”

Irritated, Dorian pulled the robe around him closer and tightened the sash. “Why do you always have to insult me?”

“I’m not insulting you, Dorian; I’m telling you what other people would think but wouldn’t say.”

Dorian looked more irritated than before.

“Don’t get a bee in your bonnet.” Coming up beside him, Faraday handed him a mug of tea. “You’re a good looking boy. You’ll probably get away with a lot in your life because of it. People get blinded by beauty. It makes them act like fools – or at the very least it stops them noticing what’s going on in front of them. That’s why I never paint subjects just because they’re beautiful. People get dizzy looking at the pretty image and they don’t see what they ought to.”

Dorian frowned at the languidly beautiful youth in Faraday’s sketches. He wondered if he should be noticing something else. Did Faraday see something he didn’t?

He finished his tea, and went back to the divan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek myth, Narcissus was a very beautiful young man who rejected the many young women who fell in love with him. One day, he caught sight of his own reflection in a pool of water and fell in love with himself, but because his love could not be returned, he pined away and died.


	7. Gift

The end of the week came around all too quickly. Dorian packed his clothes; then he gathered up all the colour sketches he’d done, and Faraday gave him a slightly battered folder to put them in. 

“So, Dorian Red, was coming here worth the row you’re going to have with your father when he finds out?”

“He won’t find out.”

Faraday shook his head. “You might not have any intention of telling him but he’s probably not as big a fool as you take him for.”

“Well, I’ve learned a lot, and it’s been worth anything that might happen as a result. I really can’t thank you enough, Cameron.” A small, worried frown gathered on Dorian’s brow. “But, Cameron, do _you_ think I’ve learned anything? Please. What do you think? Honestly.”

“Well, now. What can I say? All right – here’s what I’ve seen in your work. You see significance. You see detail. You notice incongruity. You can draw the eye, direct the gaze – better than most people. You’ve got good control of the brush, a subtle sense of colour. You learn fast – and what’s more important, you delight in learning. I think you’ve learned a lot – but now, you need to go away and apply it, make it your own.” Faraday favoured Dorian with one of his rare genuine smiles. “You could make a painter, in time. But Dorian, you have to recognise that art is a greedy, jealous mistress. If you’re going to make anything of yourself as an artist, you have to devote your life to art – you have to give yourself completely. Dabblers don’t make it. You have to ask yourself, Dorian: are you prepared to put painting above everything else? Does art fire your soul more than any other thing in this world?”

“I—”

“No – don’t answer that. You’re the only one who needs to know the answer. And you might not know the answer yet. Most people take years to know. I’d been trying to make my living as an artist for a long time before I knew for certain. Then, once I’d recognised that was who I truly was, I wouldn’t let anything obstruct me. It was the only way to be true to myself. You have considerable talent, Dorian – but you have to find your own truth.”

Faraday reached up to the top of a nearby cupboard. “Here, this is something I want you to have.” 

He handed Dorian a painting done on heavy grade, high-quality paper. It was a colour study of Dorian as Narcissus: a beautiful youth, graceful and languorous, his face half-turned away from the observer, gazing at his own reflection. 

“It’s beautiful,” Dorian breathed. “Cameron – thank you.” Then, “His reflection is clearer than his face is.”

Faraday smiled. “Sometimes the reflections we show the world are clearer to the observer than our own faces. Know your reflection, Dorian, and know your own face. Don’t lose sight of which is which.” He opened the door. “Go on, Dorian, off you go. Practice what you’ve learned, and find your own truth.”


End file.
